


Long Schtory Schort

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Charles is going to get a lot of weird fanmail now and he knows it, M/M, Murderface is too repressed to realize that everyone is gay, Nathan fucked up that press conference, Slice of Life, The Great Stops Copies Me Argument continues, Unrequited Crush, William Murderface's Closet opens a crack, kloktober 2020, making out in the snow, surprise kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27180350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: “So that was pretty terrible,” Nathan was saying. “And then she went and blew up the whole fucking building too, so, uh. Yeah. She was crazy. I am so fucking done with crazy chicks.”Murderface stopped stabbing and twisted the blade thoughtfully. Done . . . with chicks? Like,donedone?[Alternate title: There's A Lot To Unpack Here, But Murderface Is About To Shit In The Suitcase]
Relationships: Nathan Explosion/Charles Foster Offdensen, Nathan Explosion/William Murderface, Skwisgaar Skwigelf/Toki Wartooth
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	Long Schtory Schort

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 24 prompt, "Snow or pumpkin carving." I already did pumpkin carving, and I'm pretty sure it was snowing in Fanklok when they touched back down to earth, right? The nature of this month is such that I did not have time to double check. 
> 
> Anyway, here's a snippet of Murderface being a lonely little gay disaster in a haus full of gay disasters.

“So, uh. Everyone’s been asking a lot of questions about . . . my latest girlfriend, Trindle.” Dethklok front man Nathan Explosion’s face grimaced on the television screen. 

“Woah, bad time for a closeup, camera guy,” Pickles commented. “Worst angle ever. You can see up his nose when he does that, look.”

Idly stabbing the arm of the tv room couch with his knife, Murderface grumbled, “I don’t schee why we weren’t invited to thisch presch announchment. We were _all_ there when it happened.”

“Pfft, borings,” Skwisgaar sighed dismissively. 

“Ja, ams totally borings, why you wants to go to thats, Moiderface?”

 _Because I was a hero,_ Murderface thought, but didn’t say. They’d only laugh at him and tell him he wasn’t. He scowled and went back to watching the tv. 

Skwisgaar glanced at Toki with a haughty frown. “Stops copies me.”

“So that was pretty terrible,” Nathan was saying. “And then she went and blew up the whole fucking building too, so, uh. Yeah. She was crazy. I am so fucking done with crazy chicks.”

Murderface stopped stabbing and twisted the blade thoughtfully. Done . . . with chicks? Like, _done_ done?

“You stops copies _me_ , I thoughts it forst Skwisgaar.”

“Schut up, schome of usch are trying to lischten!”

“No,” Nathan growled in response to a reporter’s question. “Fuck no I’m not dating any more fans. Charles said it was a bad idea in the first place, and . . . I’ve gotta admit he was right. That was definitely something I should’ve listened to my manager about. One of him is worth a thousand of any of you dumb dildos anyway, so go suck on that.”

The press conference erupted into a chaos of camera flashes and shouted questions, which Nathan declined to answer by kicking the podium over and storming off. 

“Hoo boy, what was all that about?” Pickles asked. 

“Probably still traumas-tied abouts getting that lady’s face on his face what’s after she blows up,” Skwisgaar suggested. 

“Skwisgaar that’s what _I_ was goings to say, he ams tramskatized! Stop copies me!”

“Ey,” Pickles threw an empty bottle in their general direction. “We gaht more of an outside now, take yer dumb fight out there! I’m gonna watch that Speed Racer movie next, and if you two mess up my vibe before the edibles even kick in I _swear to fuckin god. . . ._ ”

Ignoring the chorus of accented “Fuck yous!” that drew, Murderface yanked his knife out of the couch and stood. “Well, you’re all fucking lame. Schmell you jerkoffsch later!”

He left the room, breaking into a labored jog. All he could think about were those three little words: _done with chicks_. (The ‘crazy’ was incidental, everyone knew all women were crazy.) It was like someone had handed him a live wire—and here he was, like an idiot, still holding on for more punishment. 

The live wire was _hope_. Murderface had been twisted up with guilt and secrets for what seemed like as long as he could remember, desperate not to admit, or even let anyone _suspect,_ that he might not be totally straight. (And yeah, in retrospect, sometimes he miscalculated and pushed it too far. That, he was sure, only made the act _more_ convincing.) 

But if anyone could tell a secret like that and get away with it, it was Nathan Explosion. The guy could do anything, and beat the shit out of anyone who didn’t want him to if he felt like it. And if Nathan wasn’t straight, if anyone could make that metal, it was him.

And if Nathan was . . . and Murderface was . . . then maybe there was a _chance_. 

* * *

Nathan threw himself down on the living room couch hard enough to rattle the empty beer bottles on the nearby coffee table, and followed the action with a brutal, growling sigh. What the fuck had he done that for? Charles hadn’t liked the whole Trindle thing to start with, sure, but he hadn’t exactly been overjoyed about the public apology. Just said something terse about not following the speech he’d written for him, again, and instructed the Klokateers to drop him back off at the Haus. 

Which pissed Nathan off, if he really thought about it. He’d been _subtle,_ dammit! It wasn’t like he’d announced they were fucking to the whole world, he’d just admitted he should have listened to the guy about something, what was so bad about that?

He heard the sound of approaching boots and quickly closed his eyes. Maybe whoever it was would think he was asleep and go away. 

“Hey, Nathan! Fanschy meeting you here. How are you, buddy?” Murderface chuckled weakly, and when he got no response, continued, “Scho, I, uh, schaw what you schaid out there. . . .”

Nathan frowned in his fake sleep. _Go away, Murderface._

“And, you know, I think that wasch . . . pretty cool. Of you. To schay.”

The bastard sounded nervous. _Good,_ Nathan thought. _He should be nervous about bothering people who are_ trying to sleep. 

“And, well. . . . Long schtory schort. . . . Ah, woooo, been holding onto thisch one for a while but, uh. . . . I feel the schame way.”

Nathan couldn’t help it; his eyes popped open and he drew breath to snap back at the bassist, sure Murderface was setting him up for some sort of punchline like the dick he was. “What—”

He probably should have opened his eyes sooner, or taken that breath through his nose instead of his mouth, because Murderface was a lot closer to his face than he had expected or really felt comfortable with. Before he had time to react the guy was already smashing his mouth against his, and Nathan’s mouth was regrettably already open so there was suddenly an extra tongue in there, wiggling inexpertly against his and _oh god they were sharing spit._

Everything in Nathan was screaming at his arm muscles to give this gay tongue-kissing bastard the hell away from him. Unfortunately, one was dangerously close to Murderface’s goin where he was leaning over the couch (no way did Nathan want to find out what was happening there) and the other was pinned between the back of the couch and his own body. Any other movement would include sitting up, which would only press the gap between Murderface’s front teeth harder into his lip, or randomly kicking his legs, which didn’t seem likely to help. So . . . what the fuck was he supposed to do?

Then it was over, and Murderface stumbled in his rush to get the coffee table between them—probably just in case Nathan wanted to punch his lights out, which as it happened was a _damn smart precaution_ after the shit he’d just pulled. If the whole Trindle thing had gotten in trouble, how much shit would he be in if Charles caught him in a lip lock with _Murderface?_

“Scho, uh, yeah,” Murderface babbled. His face was red already and quickly getting redder. “Cardsch are on the table here. Juscht becausche of what you schaid though! It’sch juscht out of scholidarity, that’sch it! And if you tell anyone or try to hurt my future political campaign with thisch, I’ll tell everyone you schtarted it and they’ll probably believe me, you big schtupid asschole!”

Then he ran away. 

Nathan sat up and wiped an unholy amount of Murderface slobber off his face. _This is probably how people feel when they get back from fighting in a war,_ he thought vaguely. _Shell-shocked. Only it’s . . . gay. Gay shell-shocked?_ He’d never felt shell-shocked after Charles had kissed him—never in an unpleasant way, anyway—but that was different. It was a different kind of gay. Yeah, that settled it. Nathan nodded to himself. _Gay-shocked._

_Brutal._

He considered searching through the various abandoned bottles on the table on the off chance that any of them contained something he could rinse and spit with, but decided against it. There was a lingering smell of pot and cigarettes in the room, which meant that any of them could have been used as an ashtray recently. . . . Would that be worse than being kissed by William Murderface?

That question required several minutes of mulling over before he reluctantly concluded that yeah, it probably would be worse. 

* * *

Ooooooooh fuck. Ooooooooh fuck, that hadn’t gone well at all. Murderface had felt Nathan tense up the moment he touched him and there had been no romance novel bullshit like ‘melting into it and kissing back’ the longer he lingered. So he’d turned tail and run to hide in his room, like a fucking coward. 

He’d misread things so, so bad this time. 

Would Nathan tell the rest of the guys? Tears sprang to his eyes at the thought of the teasing . . . but Nathan would get needled for it too. Murderface had no illusions about how gross they all thought he was, and to be fair he couldn’t remember the last time he’d brushed his teeth. 

Muffled yelling caught his attention, which was unusual. The stone walls were thick and usually deadened all noises from the rest of the Haus—oh. Right. Ground floor, and they were actually back on the ground now. 

He stormed over to the nearest window and threw it open, blinking his damp eyes against the sudden inflow of cold wind and flakes of snow, and heard clearly:

“Stops copies me!”

“You stops copies _me!”_

“HEY, DICKWEEDSCH!”

Skwisgaar and Toki paused their snowball fury-match, each guitarist turning their heads to blink at him in owlish surprise. 

Murderface sucked in a deep breath. Sucked in all the hurt and the fear and the guilt and the self-reproach, and buried it back down where he’d always kept it, where he should’ve let it stay. When he exhaled, it was accompanied with a bellow of, “WOULD YOU DUMB GAY DILDOLICKERSCH JUST FUCKING MAKE OUT ALREADY, JESHUSCH CHRISCHT!” And he slammed the window shut. 

* * *

Skwisgaar blinked at the closed window. “Whats was he—”

The thud of Toki hitting him from a running start came as a surprise, and he dropped into the snowbank behind him with a startled yelp. 

“The fucks!”

“He gots a point,” Toki replied, staring earnestly down at him with big blue eyes. His cheeks were flushed from the cold and exertion of their fight. “So, you knows. . . . Maybes you coulds copy Toki?”

Skwisgaar considered for a moment. The cold was starting to seep into his clothes—not that it had very far to go, they hadn’t exactly stopped to put on coats before storming outside. The proposal wasn’t completely unappealing, but he wanted to test something. 

“Wills you practice yous guitar parts?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. 

“Realies? That’s all you gots to says abouts it, is if I pracs-tits?” Toki pouted. “Big dildo.”

There it was. “Crappies guitar guy,” Skwisgaar retorted automatically. 

“Blonds bimbo.”

Skwisgaar felt his pulse speed up, even as Toki crowded closer. “You says thats to my face!”

“Whats, you thinks I blows it up yous ass just nows?!”

Oh yeah. The familiar back and forth, the push and pull that had always defined their relationship, from the moment they’d met. And if Toki Wartooth pushed him to _play_ better, imagine what he might do to hone his . . . other skills. Skwisgaar was already looking forward to finding out. Always had been, really. 

“Fines, then gives to me that kiss, lets finds out whats if you evens knows how!”

“I wills!”

So Toki did, right out there in the snow. 

Later, when asked why they were so late to dinner the fucking food was cold, they shared conspiratorial smirks and answered in unison, “Makings snow angels.”


End file.
